


The Nights Were Mainly Made

by readfah_cwen



Category: Glee
Genre: Cannibalism (Implied), Gore, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readfah_cwen/pseuds/readfah_cwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the month of October, Kurt is haunted by a dream. (And the consequences are very real.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nights Were Mainly Made

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow inspired by larkoftheksy saying "pumpkin Blaine" and it's safe to say this veered wildly off prompt. But here it is, some Halloween fic for all you ghouls and gals. Title/lyrics from the Arctic Monkeys' "Do I Wanna Know?"
> 
>  **Warnings** : Gore, implied cannibalism, character death, some ableist language, just general squick.

_{Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift_  
_The type that sticks around like summat in your teeth?}_

The doors opened, slow and straining and Kurt stepped into his local supermarket. The air smelled like fall with ripe – ripe – was that rotten food, ripe underneath the billow of pumpkin spice? _Monster Mash_ played faintly in the background, and Kurt's nose twitched.

He pushed his cart forward, feeling the arresting jolt when the loose wheel caught against the welcome mat. Feet digging into the logo of a smiling sun that cheerily greeted _The Freshest In Town!_ he yanked and pushed, until the cart started moving again.

“Stupid piece of ...” Kurt's voice trailed off, the doors sliding shut behind him. He looked over his shoulder, and Blaine was still on the other side of the doors, face blank. Kurt raised an eyebrow, and beckoned Blaine with a nod of his head.

Blaine just stood there, hands dangling uselessly at his sides, eyes – well, the glass was smudged, Kurt was imagining things.

“Blaine,” Kurt called, waving at him. “Hello?”

Blaine ... just stood there. Kurt's mouth twisted. The last thing he needed was his fiancé having a stroke on him. Abandoning his cart to the side, he strode forward, only to be reminded that the doors didn't open from this side. Kurt slapped the glass. “Blaine!”

The little old lady who manned the free samples booth was watching him closely.

“Kurt,” Blaine said silently. Kurt recognized that curve of Blaine's mouth. Kurt waved him forward, and Blaine came, smiling naturally now, eyes their same loving gold. Kurt stepped back as the doors slid (slowly) open and allowed Blaine through.

“What got into you?”

“There's a sale on pumpkin pie,” Blaine said, cheerily. “Buy two, get the third half-off.”

“Please, Blaine.” Kurt shuddered. “You know I like to make my own pies. That store bought crust is baked stale.”

“Just an idea.” Blaine stepped around Kurt, elbow bumping Kurt's, taking control of the cart. It pushed smoothly forward as Blaine did, still chipper. “C'mon, there's also a sale on grapefruit.”

Kurt smiled, walking alongside Blaine, the air fresh and the music louder. “No old man arthritis for us, right?”

“Right.”

When they left, loaded down in groceries, Kurt glanced over to the entrance doors, past the coupon board and the arrangement of pumpkins, a stuffed witch laying on them, her head pitifully tipped to the side. Blaine kept his head down, and didn't look anywhere.

\--

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

Kurt woke up slowly, fighting off the clinging trails of his dream. Something about piñatas? It was like cotton candy, sweet to the point of sickening, threaded through his teeth. He swallowed drily, clumsily grabbing for his bedside water glass.

He hit it, and hit it hard, sending it clattering with a _splash_ -THUNK to the ground. “Goddamit.” Kurt pushed himself up, peering over the side. The stain was spreading rapidly across the floorboards, highlighting the ruddy tints in the wood, seeping and leeching and _everywhere_.

Kurt glanced over, to see if Blaine had seen, but Blaine wasn't there. His side of the bed was perfectly made, but he couldn't smell breakfast cooking. Kurt sighed. Within minutes he had several dish towels absorbing the mess, and the smell of wet rot filled Kurt's nose.

Blaine was not in the apartment. _Morning jog_ , he told himself, one eye on the door as he made coffee.

By the time the floor was mostly dry and Kurt had showered, dressed, and had breakfast, Blaine was still absent. Kurt reached for his phone, sending off a quick text.

As he was off to catch his train to his first class, Kurt's phone buzzed. _At NYADA. See you tonight. :)_

_Kurt: Lunch?_

Blaine never replied.

\--

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes ... but if you kissed it, maybe it would hurt less ...”

“You want me to kiss your ankle.”

“Just one kiss,” Blaine pleaded, eyes wide, pouting. “Otherwise they might have to amputate!”

“You're the one who thought that was a good thing to try in the shower,” Kurt grumbled teasingly, his hand already sliding down Blaine's calf to find the delicate jut of Blaine's ankle. Blaine grinned.

“Didn't see you complaining.”

No, Kurt had been occupied at the time. He brought Blaine's ankle up, and pressed a smacking kiss to the thin skin. It felt so much more – fragile – under his lips than it looked, like Kurt could kiss hard enough and the skin would brush away like cheap foundation.

“You're a danger to yourself,” Kurt murmured, kissing it again. Blaine laughed, foot twitching, and Kurt grabbed hold as he kissed again. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I can think of a few things ...” Blaine wiggled his toes, and Kurt laughed, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from that (tempting) sharp angle. His gums itched, and he ran his tongue along the side while he shifted to slide up between Blaine's legs.

“You're going to have to elaborate, Mr. Anderson.”

“If you come here, I'll whisper in your ear,” Blaine crooked an inviting finger and Kurt was there, their chests pressed warmly together, cheeks brushing and catching the faint hint of stubble, Blaine's hands solid on his hips. Kurt inhaled sharply as Blaine exhaled softly against his ear, and whispered:

“I want to be --”

\--

“ _HUMMEL!_ ”

Kurt dropped out of his plié with a wince, Cassandra bearing down on him like a bat sent personally straight from hell to torment him, blonde hair a wreathe of tangled goldenrod around her shoulders.

“You call that a plié! You looked so stiff I could put you in my glass and _drink you!_ ” She glared at him as he rolled his shoulders.

“Sorry.” Kurt did it again, trying to keep it fluid. “I didn't sleep well last night.”

The dream had been there, the crunching _splat_ of still-damp machié splitting up and candy guts oozing out to make his palms sticky as he grabbed them, tried to stuff them in his mouth, tongue gagging at the sweetness. It curled even now to remember, dragging against the sharp jag of his canine.

“Do you think I _care?_ ” Cassie snorted. “Do better. That's all.”

She left him alone. Kurt ignored the whispers behind him, and tried again.

\--

The dream _was_ about piñatas.

 _The swing of it,_ _the hold on his bat, the_ _wet sick crunch that stuck in his ears and slid down into his throat, gagging him, candy in the air and grimed up under his nails_.

There wasn't a dream dictionary that could explain it.

\--

“Halloween costumes.”

“Hm?”

Blaine settled next to Kurt on the couch, handing him a mug of hot cocoa. It was a windy day outside, one that licked straight through to your bones and left him shivering. Kurt accepted it with a muttered thanks, eyes straying back to _It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!_ on TV.

“Two weeks until Halloween and we haven't started planning.” Blaine carefully arranged the knit throw over both of them, settling cross-legged. “Frankly, I'm disappointed in us.”

“You're right.” Kurt frowned, and tried a sip, only to scald his tongue. Hissing, he waited for it to cool. “I've just been so busy with school and the diner and _One Three Hill_ reuniting, I completely forgot ...”

“It's okay, I've been spaced out on it too.” Blaine took a sip of his drink. “We should go as an engaged couple. So we're not un-engaged for even a night.”

“I don't think that's how it works ...” Kurt's tongue still smarted.

“Magic is strongest on Halloween,” Blaine told him, with a hint of a grin. “Stuff has more meaning then.”

“Mm-hmm.” Kurt considered this. “We could go as Neal and David. But they're not very distinctive. Or ... I don't know, what are some fictional engaged couples?”

“Um.” Blaine frowned, gaze sliding off to the side. Kurt waited patiently, Charlie Brown investigating on screen, the mug still hot in his hands. Kurt waited patiently, until he couldn't, his knee nudging Blaine's.

“Still in there?”

Blaine's mug tumbled from his hands, splash- _THUNK_ on the ground as hot chocolate crested in a wave over their hand-woven rug. Kurt jumped, barely avoiding spilling his own drink, setting it aside so he could hastily lift the rug up. “Blaine!”

“Sorry!” Blaine was there with him, tossing the blanket on the couch then running into the kitchen for paper towel. “Sorry!” Kurt ran with the rug to the bathtub, dropping it in and running the cold water. It washed the hot chocolate out of the weave, the water browning in a slow syrupy infection. Kurt drew his fingers through the mess and watched it swirl and part.

He could taste candy on the back of his teeth.

\--

“Maybe a musical couple,” Blaine suggested, later.

“Brad and Janet,” Kurt answered instantly.

\--

The subway could do with some maintenance.

The rust was creeping across the welds and joins of the cars like a creeping, strangling cancer, ugly splashes of mistreatment. Bruises, the kind Kurt would press into his own skin while seeking out the damage of lockers and dumpsters, vivid and ringed red from the blood welling up. Desperate to get out, clawing against the fragile skin that bundled him together, settling for seeping its way through the muscles and licking its way down bone. The mark of fingerprints, like proof of something seeking an exit, a knock on the door he couldn’t  _quite_  tune out.

Somebody bumped him, and Kurt woke up, stinging pain flaring in his palms. Spreading them before him, ignoring the train as the doors slid closed and pulled away with a tortured shriek, he found that he had dug his nails so hard into his palms that purpling crescent-shaped bruises were springing up, all neat in a row.

He closed his eyes, leaned back against the dirty subway wall, and tried to rub away the blood that was kissing him from the inside.

The next train took forever to come.

\--

Kurt had the patterns for his costume spread out on the floor, found online from a fellow purveyor of on-point fashion mimicry. Janet's dress wasn't hard, but Kurt had taken great care with finding the perfect fabric and editing the pattern so it would fit his shoulders. Now he spread it out, traced the outline, faint black lines like a policeman's chalk drawing.

He reached for a pair of fabric scissors, heavy and silver, glinting dully in the loft's low lighting.

“Oh, woe is me, my life is a misery,” Kurt sang to himself, kissing the fabric with the apex of the scissors before slicing sharply. “Oh _h,_ can't you see that I'm at the start of a pretty big downer?”

His voice filled the (empty) loft, Blaine off (somewhere), the snip-snip-snip and satisfying sound of the fabric separating cleanly the only other sound. “When I fell out of bed –” _snip_ “– and left from my dreaming was a feeling of unnameable dread ...” _snip_.

The dismembered geometric shapes took shape, sleeves, bodice, skirt. “That ain't no crime ...” He switched to the underskirt, the fabric more delicate, shorter _sn—“_ No ...” The back of his neck prickled like a kiss, and --

_Kurt's fingers tightened on the bat, flexing, settling, feeling the grain under his fingers. The piñata was an unremarkable donkey-shape, layered confetti paper giving it rainbow colours, swinging lazily from the tree. Left, a long, slow arc, spinning slightly, tail catching the breeze. Back to the right, just as slow, Kurt's eyes following it like a cat stalking its prey._

_Left. Right. Left. Right. LeftRight. LeftRight. LeftRightLeftRight._

_Faster now, soft laughter behind him, a man's warm voice saying, “I want that, I want that ...”_

_Kurt swung the bat back, experimentally, closing his eyes. He was blindfolded, roughness against his cheeks, the knot digging into the back of his head. His hair was being tugged on, frantic fear. He could hear the piñata, creaking, the rope on the tree branch peeling away the fragile bark. His own face, raw and wrong as the blindfold strangled him._

_He struck out with the bat, sharp and hard, and connected sweetly with a burst of visceral – viscera – he opened his eyes_ and yelped in pain, the tip of the scissors closing down _snip_ around the thick flesh at the base of his finger.

“Fuck!” Kurt dropped the scissors, bringing his hand up, blood already welling up and dropping down onto the field of white muslin.

“Are you okay?” Blaine was there, suddenly, dropping to his knees and reaching out. Kurt nodded mutely, teeth clenched as he used his whole hand to clamp down on the bleeding, trying to stem the flow. There was so much blood, wet and warm and sharply-scented under his nose.

“C'mon, let's go to the first aid kit.” Blaine helped him up, guiding him toward the bathroom. Kurt sat down on the toilet lid as Blaine busied himself with getting the white plastic box out, the red cross on the top matched by the blood pushing to escape between Kurt's white fingers. “Here.” Blaine handed him a wet wad of toilet paper and Kurt quickly replaced it.

Within seconds it bloomed red.

“Alright, here.” Blaine sat down on the edge of the bathtub, a roll of bandage in his hand and a thick medical pad. “Let me see it.” Kurt pulled away the wad, revealing the deep cut. He expected to feel nausea, but instead he craved candy corn.

He didn't even like candy corn.

“You might need stitches.” Blaine applied the pad then wrapped it up in the gauze, until Kurt's finger was a little mummy. He finished off with deft application of medical tape. “We should go to the clinic.”

“Okay.”

\--

Four stitches.

“Coulda lost your finger,” the doctor chuckled, the hooked needle tugging through Kurt's flesh. “Make a good Halloween costume, yeah?”

“I'm Janet.”

“Yeah, I saw you came in with a guy.”

Kurt didn't dignify that with a response, instead watching the skin kiss again.

He hoped it didn't scar.

\--

Kurt shifted his shoulder bag, the train slowly rocking around him. The occasional light flickered out past the windows, tunnels branching off, the bright orange of a construction sign. His knees nearly brushed those of the couple sitting in front of him. She had a leaf that she was twirling around, two holes punched through it near the top.

“Howdy,” she giggled, bringing it up to her face and staring out the makeshift mask. He leaned forward, kissing her through the leaf. Kurt's eyes darted back to the window. Still darkness.

The subway car took a corner, screeching in pain as it rattled at the joints. Kurt closed his eyes and his mind wandered in the opposite direction, back to the loft and the half-finished dress on his dummy. If you lifted up the headless body's skirts you would find he'd been too frugal to buy more fabric, and the underskirt was dotted with blood.

“Hey! Fuck you, shitbag!” Kurt glanced to the side, an angry young man getting up in the face of another. The second man narrowed his eyes, baring yellow teeth. Kurt was probably about to witness a stabbing, and he turned his attention back out the window.

Everyone else kept similarly to themselves, the couple still giggling and stealing kisses; she tickled him with the leaf and he playfully bit at her lip.

Another corner, hurdling, Kurt's stomach not quite keeping up. Did the trains always go this fast?

The sounds of a struggle, grunting. Kurt closed his eyes, and they slid into the station with a belated announcement and the rush and flow of bodies in and out the train. Like cells, in and out of an aorta, structures that protected fragile little bodies.

How fast would they die, if the train crashed?

The lights flickered. Kurt reopened his eyes just as the train was entirely plunged into darkness. The two men had either gotten off, or one was bleeding out on the floor, because it was silent other than the tinny echo of someone's too-loud music and the giggling couple. Next second, the lights returned, a little dimmer.

_The bat connected, and Kurt watched the ripe burst of the confetti skin. Candy slipped out in thick, slippery ropes, dropping out in slow motion from the still piñata. The bat clattered to the ground and Kurt reached forward, catching it, pieces squirming out between his fingers and staining them multitudes of muddy colours._

_All together, they looked rusty brown. His bandaged finger stood out, stark white._

_“Not that one, mister, the other one ...”_

_He brought a handful to his mouth and shoved them in, gagging as they slid down like egg yolk over the back of his tongue, a gaping cavern crushed full and the spaces between his teeth filling with cement. Another handful, another, barely swallowing fast enough and a yawning hunger burning for moremoremore._

_It almost tasted like raspberries._

“Excuse me.” Kurt opened his eyes to find the couple trying to get off. Kurt stepped aside, taking her seat once they left, head tipping back to rest against the grimy window. As the doors slid close, he felt the train start to move again, the darkness moving with it behind his back.

They might not die on impact. They might go slowly.

At least then he'd have a reason to miss class.

\--

Cassie circled him like a shark. “That finger's no excuse to sit out.”

“I wasn't planning on it, Ms. July.”

“Then get to work. I want to see you nail that jump. If you don't ...”

She dragged a finger across her throat. Kurt nodded tersely, and started stretching.

\--

Blaine dropped a bag with a witch's hat peeking out on the table, a triumphant grin and a “Tah-dah!” on his lips as he pulled it out. Kurt stopped considering the living room rug (still tinted brown) to examine the witch figurine Blaine had.

Grotesque wooden face, big nose and warts and all, green skin as vivid as pus. Her dress was ragged black and her striped stockings were purple and yellow, scrawny legs guiding down into buckled shoes.

“I'm almost offended on Elphaba's behalf.” Kurt reached out, grabbing a wooden hand to shake it. Her body was pliant stuffing, probably designed to sit somewhere. Or to be nailed to a door.

“But it's spooky, right?” Blaine set her aside, then revealed the rest of the Halloween decorations he had gotten. Kurt nodded in approval – Blaine had excellent taste – and when the bag was empty, they got to work on doing up their apartment. Artfully placed dried and dyed corn, a string of orange and black fairy lights, a stuffed raven, skeletal salad tongs, crepe and confetti and spiders and ghosts and webbing. The witch got a place of honour in their bedroom, sitting on top of the low dresser.

As Kurt adjusted her dangling legs, his attention was caught by movement to his left. The tall mirror was angled so Kurt could see a hand reaching through the rack of clothes. The fingers emerged slowly, hand cocked and wrist bones (so naked) slipping out as well.

“Kuuuurt,” Blaine whispered lowly. He wiggled his fingers. “Come, I vant to vipe your vindows ...”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Kurt stalked forward, grabbing hold of Blaine's wrist and turning his hand over, free hand tracing over the lines of Blaine's palm. “Hmm, let's see.”

“What's in my future?” Blaine rustled the clothes, leaning closer. Kurt could almost smell his cologne. “Is it a handsome man whose Vivienne Westwood sweater I'm currently leaning against?”

“I see ...” Kurt pinched Blaine's hand, feeling the fat and muscle between spiderweb bones. Blaine flinched, but Kurt held on, pulling it closer. “A witch, angry about your stereotyping ...” Blaine chuckled “... coming for you, testing your finger ...” Kurt pinched Blaine's pointer next, the lump of the knuckle under his fingertips. “And saying you're ready to be baked in her oven.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Blaine laughed.

“No.” Kurt brought the hand up, biting lightly on Blaine's finger, tongue flicking out. Around it, he murmured, “ _tasty_.”

Blaine fell silent, a little hitch of breath, and Kurt bit harder, running his tongue over the dents he had left after. The next time he bit down he expected Blaine to yelp, the flesh mushrooming up around his teeth, the grind of bone undercut by the taste of salt.

Blaine just stood there.

Kurt finally released him. “Blaine?” The hand continued to stick out, fingers splayed, the pointer still bearing little purple valleys of skin. It was motionless.

“Are you okay?” Kurt tapped the hand. He couldn't see Blaine past the multitude of clothes, just the arm, still and beckoning. Kurt licked dry lips, and slowly began to circle around the rack. He imagined what he would find, Blaine, those dead eyes and – no – the glass had been smudged.

His heart was in his throat as he came around the edge of the rack, wool fibers clinging to him from a fuzzy sweater, turning the corner and finding – nothing.

“Blaine?”

“Over here.” Blaine emerged from the bathroom, a rubber bat in hand. “We should hang this in the shower.”

“Weren't you just ...” Kurt spun on the clothes rack, pushing it open,  but all there was on the other side was the witch, staring evilly at him from the dresser top.

“Just what?” Blaine came forward, waving the bat, silly grin on his face. Kurt shook nonsense clear of his head. Too little sleep, lately. “Come here, Kurt, I vant to vipe your vindows ...”

Kurt kissed him, his tongue aching sweetly.

\--

The problem with trains was that they were never on time.

Kurt left at eight am, and didn't make it to school until ten. It must have been the trains, because he couldn't remember any detours. He didn't really remember anything.

Maybe a dream, the sharp  _hack_  of parting flesh, but he wouldn't sleep on the subway.

He barely slept anywhere, anymore.

\--

They went out for coffee. Kurt didn't order anything.

He wasn't hungry for that.

“Pumpkin spice?” Blaine held up his own drink. “Yay or nay?”

“Nay.”

“You love pumpkin spice!” Blaine pouted. “C’mon, just a sip.”

“No thank you.”

“Alright.” Blaine took a deep sip, humming around it. Kurt watched a tiny trickle escape, as Blaine tipped it back deeper. And deeper. Another trickle, curling around Blaine’s jaw. Kurt’s hand flew out, snakelike, grabbing the coffee cup and yanking it away.

Blaine spluttered, coffee tipping and spilling down his chin, his neck, staining the edge of his white polo. “What was that?”

“I want some,” Kurt said, setting the cup down on the table then pressing in, tongue darting up the line of coffee left behind on Blaine’s chin, before kissing him, spices exploding against his tongue. Blaine kissed back, a _humph_ trapped between them as Kurt slid his hand along Blaine’s wet, warm neck. His thumb rested against Blaine’s pulse, feeling its trapped flutter, and then Blaine was pulling away with a laugh.

“I need to wash this off,” Blaine said, slipping his hand against Kurt’s, pushing it away. Kurt’s fingers flexed, _a bat in his hand_ , and when he blinked Blaine was gone. Kurt waited, watching the coffee grow colder on the table, his fingers stained sticky.

He watched the leaves – these ones yellow, with dark spots of rot – tumbling down outside, the tree’s limbs shaking in the gusting wind. A woman walked by, wearing an old black coat, curled inside it as she fought the wind. In the distant, a car alarm started honking. _One. Two_. A man walking a big dog, its tongue lolling happily. _Seven. Eight_. Somebody exited with a tray of four coffees. _Thirteen_. Where was the damn owner?

“Can I have this seat?”

Kurt looked up, finding a small girl there, gesturing to Blaine’s (still empty) chair. Kurt blinked. How long had it been?

“What time is it?”

“Uh. After four? Let me check ...” she reached for her phone.

They had gotten there at three. Kurt stood, brushing past the girl, and wound his way to the back of the shop. The washrooms were empty. Kurt pulled out his phone, calling Blaine.

_“Hi! Are you okay?”_

That was Blaine, alive and well. _Seventeen_.

“Blaine, where did you go?”

 _“I’ve been at class all day. I was wondering where_ you _were, Cassie said you missed, but you haven’t been answering my calls ..._ ”

“We got coffee.”

“ _Who_?”

“You and me! Just now!”

“ _Do you have a fever?_ ”

Kurt’s heart felt sick and limp inside his chest, and he massaged above it, uncomfortable. The silence went on too long, tight and thin. Somewhere: _Twenty-three_.

Kurt hung up the phone, and quiet fell. Clutching it in his white-knuckled grip, he approached the barista that had served him. “I came in here with someone, didn’t I?”

The barista stared back with dead eyes. “Huh?”

“Nevermind ...”

Kurt was starting to feel a bit hot. Maybe he did have a fever.

He went home and slept.

\--

_Maybe it wasn’t about the piñata, but the bat, the feel of the swing, the crush._

_An assembly, years ago. Don’t drunk drive. A car, chewed up and spat out, the spray of blood over the driver side’s door. Figgins’ dry monotone as he recited the dangers: Police record. Paralysation. Death._

_Kurt swung the bat, and the crunch that followed was bone on metal, the s_ quish _that echoed it. He couldn't take a step without that, anymore. He was starting to lose it._

_Don’t eat before you go to bed, somebody said once._

\--

“Okay, but like, in the movie we see this guy, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He's got this hunched back, and he's always there, because he can't move that quickly.” Artie spun his wheels, deftly avoiding a lightpost. Kurt kept pace, head inclined to listen. “Can't escape the scene of the crime.”

“But he's a red herring.” Kurt had planned enough murder mysteries.

“Yep.” Artie nodded. “But everyone suspects him. Because biases. They call him the evil cripple. And in the end, he kills the actual killer, to save the people.”

“And then they learn their lesson?”

“No, then they lynch him and leave him dead in a ditch.” Artie rubbed his chin. “The problem is, I'm not sure my budget for the movie will cover all the angry mobs I want.”

“If we have time, Blaine and I can join the mobs.” They hit a Do Not Walk sign, pausing on the edge of the sidewalk. Behind him, a businessman cleared his throat, and a woman chattered on her phone to her friend about _foie gras_.

“That's nice, but I don't know if you two are, you know.” Artie paused. “ _Real_ as violent attackers.”

“Clearly you haven't seen someone get in my way for a sale at Neiman's.” Kurt nudged Artie. “I'll kill it.”

“Then I'll text you the deets.” Artie held up his hand for a high five, which Kurt returned. “What are you two doing for Halloween, by the way? Because my friend Ashley heard about this _hella_ good party in the burb.”

“We haven't decided yet. Can't exactly go trick-or-treating in New York.” Kurt considered it. “Text me those details too?”

“Sure.” The light changed, and they started forward, Kurt's eyes narrowing on something he hadn't seen before in the river of cars. It was a dead pigeon, wings splayed out and tire treads flattening out an expulsion of grey-purple-red all across the pavement. One of its legs reached up, a frozen claw tearing at the air. Kurt stepped around it, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“I heard,” Artie said, tires rolling over the tip of one wing. “That some guy has been throwing bread out in the middle of the road, hoping pigeons will get hit.”

“That's horrible.” Kurt scowled. “There are some serious psychotics in this city.”

“ _Preach_.”

\--

Blaine preferred taking the bus, being above-ground.

"It's not practical," Kurt told him.

"I don't trust tunnels," Blaine answered.

They were always learning new things about each other.

\--

 _Kurt pressed down on soft flesh, feeling the echo and churn of gristle and blood, hands going down again, arms see-sawing._ _It was the piñata, rope broken and on the ground, still and gutted and gross. He was performing TV CPR on it, completely useless, arms burning._

_The round black eye stared up at him. Kurt blinked away sweat. “I vant the other one!”_

_Kurt reared back, hammering down on the confetti chest until it exploded, his fingers reaching into the throat cavity and coming out with candy guts. Hard candies like bloody teeth popped out from between his clumsy fingers, strings of licorice wrapping octopus-like around his fingers and nestling between his knuckles._

_Kurt brought it to his mouth, and ate. The sweet flavour burst into threads of slime that wiggled down his throat like tapeworms, his uvula trembling meekly against the back of his throat, ridged muscles in the esophagus pulling it down into that yawning pit._

_“Kurt,” sang someone, hot breath against his ear. “I want to be inside of you.”_

_The piñata innards were meeting his own, and Kurt's eyes closed in bliss, clutching up more handfuls until he ran out of hands, dozens of fingers shoving up against his mouth, choking choking choking it all down._

_“Kurt,” sang someone,_ a hand shaking his arm. “It's time to get up.”

Kurt's eyes blinked wearily open. Blaine was settled beside him, bearing a smile and a cup of coffee. “Rise and shine. Are you hungry? I can make breakfast.”

“No.” Kurt pushed himself up, accepting the coffee. “I'm not hungry.”

“Okay.” Blaine darted a kiss to Kurt's cheek then wriggled off the bed. “I've got to get going. Wear something warm – it's raining out.”

Kurt nodded, watching Blaine go. The coffee burned but Kurt didn't care, knocking it back like tequila, skin prickling to the rain pattering outside. It had been weeks, and all he could dream about was that piñata. He felt he should be more worried, but maybe he was too tired to be worried.

It was going to be a long day.

\--

His train had to go slow due to maintenance in the tunnels. Kurt felt each turn of the wheels like it was a slow roll of a ship's deck, his stomach clenching and slipping. If he let his mind wander it was like he could look down and see his insides, the slimy pink of intestines folded in on themselves, cradling his multi-coloured organs tenderly, everything sloshing up against the cage of his ribs.

He felt unclean. He wanted to count, to list off on his fingers, crack his own chest and reach in to sort things out.

What would your liver look like, scrubbed clean?

“I'm telling you, that shit tastes like fucking vomit, and she wants to bring it to the party?”

“She’s _so_ stupid.” The girls giggled, tipping their heads together, hair cascading. Kurt wanted that exact colour for his wig, the perfect Janet. He wondered if he could snip some from their heads while they weren't looking.

The train slowly rumbled into his stop. Kurt got up, hands tight on his bag, and exited ahead of the girls.

\--

Blaine didn't reply to a single text he sent that day.

\--

He finished the dress. It fit perfectly, and Kurt modeled it for Blaine who clapped happily. Kurt swore he could smell the blood though, and slid it off with plans of washing it. The Brad costume was easier to get together, Kurt kissing Blaine's nose after he'd slid the glasses on.

They went shopping for wigs and groceries after that. With headless blonde locks in his bag he treaded over _The Freshest In Town!_ mat and directed Blaine to the canned goods aisle while he headed to spices. “I have to start making pies.”

“Alright, Mrs. Lovett.” Blaine danced away, wearing the glasses and looking studious. Kurt passed the fish and meats with an eye on the lobsters, still a dull brown and their claws bound in elastics as they sat in the nigh-stagnant water. Kurt watched them, half-caught in a dream, a whisper tapping on his shoulder. Did they crack open the same, raw?

The hefty man behind the counter beckoned him, and Kurt hurried on with the basket clinking against his side. Was that rotten meat he smelled? He huffed out through his nose. Gone now.

Kurt grabbed bread and other necessities before heading to the spice aisle, grabbing cinnamon and nutmeg and everything else, spilled powders staining his fingers red, the white bandage now dusky. “Ugh.” Kurt rolled his eyes, trying to wipe it off on his pants, finger streaks appearing on the denim.

 _I told the Witchdoctor I was in love with you_ echoed from the speakers, and Kurt hummed along as he continued, giving up on that mess for now. He'd change the instant he got home. So, eager to get there soon, he collected his half of the list and went looking for Blaine.

He couldn't find his fiancé. It didn't seem so important. Or it was most important. Those spices were too loud; he couldn't seem to get his bearing.

“Get a grip, Hummel.” Kurt shook his head, and then approached the little old lady who manned the free sample booth. “Excuse me ma'am, have you seen the man I came in with? Did he leave?”

“Oh, he left a minute ago,” the woman nodded, then added in a conspirator’s whisper. “Is he yours? He's just _scrumptious_.”

Kurt laughed. “Yes, he is. Thank you, ma'am.”

He paid for his stuff, grabbing a can of pumpkin purée just in case Blaine hadn't gotten any. Outside, he found Blaine, leaning against the wall of the supermarket. It was raining and the ground stained dark, puddles taking in light and giving off nothing. When Kurt stepped outside Blaine suddenly stiffened, turned, and walked away. He was empty-handed.

“Blaine!”

Kurt followed, wincing as the rain pattered against his hair, chasing Blaine. He kept going faster and faster, ducking and weaving through the crowds, a sea of black umbrellas blooming like nightshade as Kurt tried to navigate them with two bags of groceries. He lost sight of Blaine after stumbling against the back of a man so pale he made Kurt look tan, apologizing swiftly as he rocked up on his toes and tried to find Blaine's distinctive hair in the clamour.

“Kurt!”

Kurt spun around, colliding with Blaine, who was soaked through. “What happened? You practically ran out of the store.”

“ _I_ ran out of the store?” Kurt huffed. He thought of Blaine's arm, sticking out lifelessly from the rack, a guileless smile and a too-hot kiss. “That would be you, mister. You didn't even get the pumpkin purée.”

Blaine silently raised the grocery bag he was holding. Through the shroud of plastic, Kurt saw the cans with little pumpkins on them.

“Oh.” Kurt frowned. “Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was ...”

“My doppelganger?” Blaine laughed. “I think Halloween's getting to you, Kurt. I know you've been having bad dreams lately ...”

“I think so too.” Kurt smiled weakly. “Let's go home.”

\--

He didn't dream that night. Instead, sleepless, he slipped out of bed and headed into the living room, turning on the TV on mute. He watched _Nightmare On Elm Street_ in the quiet dark, chin on his knees and starting every time he mistook the dress-draped dummy looming out of the darkness for a ... something.

When his finger started itching, he unwrapped the bandage, picking at the stitches.

The dress twitched. Kurt closed his eyes, and yanked. Thread tore free and his skin puckered and bled, but it didn't separate into a gaping wound, just stared slit-eyed up at him and oozing slow blood as he wrapped it back up.

He fell asleep on the couch, and woke up to an empty apartment and creases on his face.

\--

It was the thirty-first.

Kurt did everything perfectly in Cassie's class. He kissed Blaine in the hallways and Blaine didn't do a single strange thing. He came home to find the witch had fallen to the floor, legs splayed out and her head at an odd angle, but everything else was fine.

He finally slept deeply, without interruption. Except —

_“Kurt?”_

The sick _thud_ of a crushing force, a warm pool of blood, _Wake up NOW!_

(He wasn’t sure he did.)

\--

He never had nightmares as a kid. Always slept so peacefully,  _Mommy's little angel_ , warm and safe.

Or maybe Kurt just made that up.

\--

The _ding!_ that echoed a minute left on the oven's timer broke the silence of the loft.

Kurt found himself on his knees, a reddened bucket of water at his elbow, a scrub-brush industrially working the floor. His knuckles were raw from being dragged across the wood and his arms ached, the push-pull-push tugging on his muscles. He leaned back, rubbing his biceps, and stopped at the sight of his costume. It had been freshly washed just this week, but now ...

Janet’s dress was soaked red along the bottom, still dripping wetly against the floor. _Plip_. Kurt rose up, half-turning. Listening. The loft was empty, but outside, several loud bangs went off. Fireworks.

Kurt’s nose twitched. Copper, hot and warm, and when he stood, the scent of something cooking.

It wasn’t pumpkin pie.

Kurt wiped soapy red hands down on his apron, heart squeezing hard against his ribs, and took a careful step towards the kitchen. _Drip_. It was nearly midnight, and had he gone to classes that day? He had, right? He had gone to classes and come home with Blaine but—

The loft was empty.

_BANG!_

_Plip._

Kurt swallowed, another step towards the kitchen, his ribs nearly aching as they begged for relief. He pressed them down with his bandaged hand, leaving a bright red streak against his apron.

_BANG!_

_Plip_.

_Crunch._

Kurt stopped, lifting his foot, and looked down. Brad’s glasses, also streaked red, twisted underfoot. One of the lenses had popped out and Kurt carefully stepped around it. They had been so faithfully glued to Blaine's face lately, and Kurt's spine squirmed in protest as he moved on.

_BANG!_

_Plip._

_Ding!_

Kurt entered his kitchen, approaching the oven, which was emitting a soft wash of heat and glowing invitingly. His nose twitched. The sink was filled with – he wanted – he needed to vomit. Kurt swallowed it down, and hands trembling, he pulled open the oven.

So still, eyes dead, Blaine's head stared back.

  _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr link](http://boldmistakes.tumblr.com/post/101461723566/the-nights-were-mainly-made-klaine-11)


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